Of Wagers and Moustaches
by austenfan1990
Summary: A light-hearted Poirot/Hastings fic. Hastings being left in London while Poirot deals with a case in Scotland decides to grow a moustache as part of a wager. Poirot's reaction, to his surprise, is not what he initially expects. Slight slashy moments.


**Of Wagers and Moustaches**

A Poirot/Hastings fic

By austenfan1990

**A/N**: My first foray into Poirot/Hastings slash. To tell the truth, I'm usually not interested in slash but once I read the wonderful fanfic, _The Real Captain Hastings_, I was completely won over by the idea and now staunchly ship the pairing. I was rewatching 'Double Sin' recently and I thought, 'What if Hastings _did_ grow a moustache?' (I know he has one in the books but I decided to base this in the Poirot television universe…) and more importantly, how would Poirot react to it? The result of such imaginings came in the form of the light-hearted nonsense below which I am, alas, wholly responsible for.

Both Poirot and Hastings belong to the genius of Agatha Christie (and of course, the wonderful David Suchet and Hugh Fraser who make the definitive duo).

* * *

'_Hastings, why do you not grow the moustache?' _

'_What?'_

'_I did not achieve true facial symmetry until I grew the moustache. It caused me great unhappiness as a young man'. _

'_I don't want facial symmetry. I want help.' – __Double Sin_

It was a fine autumn afternoon when I received a telephone call from Poirot to pick him up at King's Cross. The summons was not entirely unexpected; my Belgian friend had been called to the north on a case the week before and I, rather unusually, found myself alone with Miss Lemon in London and had been asked to wait for further instructions. As to the latter, I confess I wasn't actually expecting any. I had deduced quite early on that this was Poirot's way of keeping me out of his investigations while endeavouring to spare my feelings. You see, I had been taken ill a few days prior to Poirot's new case due to a particularly bad cold which had sprung up quite viciously from my occasional bouts of fever (a most troublesome result of my once catching malaria during my travels). My friend seeing that the scene of the crime was located in Scotland immediately ordered me to stay where I was.

'No, no, _mon cher _Hastings,' he had said gently as I struggled weakly to get myself out of bed as he relayed to me the details of his new case. 'I will attempt to undertake this journey alone.'

Despite my condition, I was reluctant to let him go by himself. I knew it was foolish of me to protest seeing how terribly down in the dumps I was but after being his constant companion in so many cases and for so many years, I was instinctively against the idea. 'But Poirot, you've never been to Scotland. _I_ have –'

'_Comment?_ And to have you as a – what do they call it? A tour guide?' He shook his head. '_Non_, _mon ami_, Poirot is not there to take a _vacance_, it is to solve a murder!'

To tell the truth, he was right. But I still remained adamant. Poirot sighed and sat on the bed, the springs creaking a little as he did so.

'_Mon cher_, I am no more happy than you in this state of affairs,' he said, his face taking on an expression which I often saw in the more private moments of our time together. Then he suddenly straightened and once more the obsessively logical detective came back into that moustached countenance. 'But to have to endure you coughing and sneezing into a handkerchief beside me…_mon Dieu_, it is not conducive to the little grey cells! Please, Hastings, do both you and me the great favour of staying in London.'

Upon seeing my crestfallen expression, he added quietly, his tone softening: 'Remember, Hastings, I say this only because I think it best for you and your unfortunate illness.' He paused. 'But if I have need of you, I will send a telegram _imm__édiatement_.'

I took this as a compromise on Poirot's part though knowing him and his ways, it would obviously never come to bear fruit. Nevertheless, I relented and found myself in the care of Miss Lemon who, despite my feeble and slightly embarrassed protests, made a most amiable and caring nurse and lessened the disappointment in finding myself being left alone and moreover, a rather pathetic invalid, in the following few days.

It was five days after Poirot's departure that I found myself able to stand on my two feet without too much trouble. Admittedly, I was still feeling weak but the worst of the illness had passed and I was also feeling hungry; a good sign that my lost appetite was returning. For the past few days, I had been only able to stomach some thin gruel and small pieces of toast and I was eager to finally eat a decent meal.

Looking at my appearance in the bathroom mirror, I was startled by the rather forlorn and dishevelled looking fellow peering back at me and was immediately ashamed to have subjected my scruffy person to Miss Lemon during my illness. She was indeed a dear lady, I thought, after I had washed and dressed myself in my usual three-piece tweed suit. Returning to the mirror and looking far more presentable, I reached for my shaving kit on the washstand. It had been many days since I had been able to shave and already a noticeable beard and moustache were making their presence known on my pale face. In fact, my unusual pallor actually accentuated them and I flushed slightly, once more thinking over what Miss Lemon must have thought of me during my convalescence. Hastily lathering up and raising the razor to my cheek, I began to shave. A few minutes and several cuts later, I had successfully divested myself of my disagreeable beard. Raising the razor once again to delegate my remaining moustache to the same fate, my hand stilled in mid-air as a thought stirred in my brain.

For it was at that exact moment that I was reminded of a conversation Poirot and I had on the subject of moustaches a few months earlier. He had been in one of his more terrible moods where anything one said to deter him simply bounced off him like a brick wall and he had shocked me with his declaration of retiring from his work. Of course, this never became a reality (I hardly think Poirot the sort of fellow who would be able to remain idle for long) but he had suggested rather out of the blue that I should grow a moustache to achieve what he called 'facial symmetry'. Already frustrated with him and his maddening uncooperativeness, I had at the time flatly turned down the suggestion, seeing this as one of Poirot's methods of irritating me even further. To my surprise, he had once again raised the subject at breakfast a few days before I had been taken ill. My mood then was admittedly much more obliging.

'Good Lord, Poirot, you really _were_ being serious about me having a moustache,' I said, my brows raised as I looked at him over the top of my newspaper.

He smiled ruefully at me, dabbing the corners of his mouth tidily with his napkin. 'Of course, _mon ami_. Have I ever been otherwise?'

'Well, I sort of took it as a joke. You know, a sort of ruse to get me more annoyed with you.'

Poirot decided not to reply and he merely asked: 'So, Hastings. You agree?'

'What, growing a moustache, you mean?'

'Yes.'

I put down the newspaper, satisfied that I had already read everything which was of interest to me. The English cricket team had done exceedingly well recently and I was feeling quite pleased with myself that morning. After a slight pause, I decided to indulge the little man seated opposite me and I said half-jokingly, laughing a little:

'If you'll pay me ten pounds, Poirot.'

To my astonishment, he agreed without a word of protest.

'We have an agreement. Ten pounds it shall be, Hastings…but only on one condition.'

I looked up, my curiosity piqued.

'What's that?'

'That your resulting moustache is to my complete satisfaction.'

I seriously doubted whether any moustache I could ever hope to come up with could ever meet Poirot's exacting standards but I found myself agreeing to the idea. However, I think our little amusing wager was quite forgotten as a result of my sudden illness and Poirot's equally unexpected business in the north – it at least completely escaped my own mind until now. It felt a little silly to be doing such a thing when Poirot was busily solving a grisly murder and probably would see my growing a moustache as a little tasteless in his absence but seeing that I had little else to occupy me until his return, I decided to back my part of the wager and resolutely put down my razor. Washing off the remaining lather off my face and arranging my new moustache as best I could, I set about my business as usual; my first duty being of course the preparation of some good English breakfast.

* * *

Miss Lemon was the first to notice my altered appearance.

'Why, Captain Hastings – you're not growing a moustache, are you?' she asked, her usually composed face looking surprised as I poked my head around the doorway of her office after breakfast.

I smiled. 'I am indeed, Miss Lemon. Nothing elaborate, of course; no pomades for me just a plain old military moustache. I thought I'd give Poirot a run for his money – what do you think?' I looked at her rather eagerly, perhaps a little too eagerly but I was desirous to assure myself that what I had planned to do wasn't a total failure from the beginning. I need not have worried.

'Very dashing,' she smiled approvingly. 'And you would certainly give Mr Poirot a turn once he comes back.'

'Oh? When do you think that will be?' I asked.

She consulted a piece of notepaper next to her typewriter. 'He telephoned to say that he expects to arrive the day after tomorrow.'

'That's Thursday, isn't it?' I said absentmindedly.

'No, Captain Hastings,' she smiled, shaking her head. 'Tomorrow's Thursday.' She looked on me kindly through her spectacles. 'You've been ill far too long.'

'Yes,' I sighed. 'Bound to have got the days wrong.'

In fact, Poirot's own estimate, like mine, proved to be a day off. Instead of setting out on the Friday, I was actually speedily driving the Lagonda through London on a Saturday afternoon. The entire city seemed to pour itself onto the streets; countless couples holding hands, nannies with prams, governesses with their wards – and moreover, the majority all seemed to congregate at King's Cross, ready to set off on their weekend excursions across the country. The resulting noise and din was tremendous and it was almost a miracle that I arrived in time to catch Poirot's train at four o'clock.

It did not take long to find him; I soon found the familiar dapper figure alighting carefully onto the steam-engulfed platform and quickly turning to one of the porters nearby, he began to delegate each of them to his luggage with the efficiency of a Quartermaster General.

So engrossed was Poirot in this task that he failed to be aware of my presence until I called, taking one of his suitcases from a tired-looking porter: 'Poirot!'

The Belgian's brown gaze immediately directed itself in my direction. Walking towards me, his arms outstretched in his customary Continental greeting, he started visibly upon seeing my face.

'Hastings?' He stared looking almost astounded at my upper lip and then after a pause in which he strangely seemed to assure himself of its existence said: 'But this is quite unexpected, _mon ami_ – is it so that you have grown the moustache in my absence?'

'See for yourself,' I said smilingly. 'Does it win your approval?'

'It is –' he started but then stopped rather uncharacteristically. Suddenly his manner underwent a complete change and an expression of annoyance passed over his features. I was unsure of how to react to this and was about to ask whether he was feeling out of sorts when he said briskly, his tone cool and businesslike: 'Ah, you have my valise, _mon ami_,' now gesturing towards his treasured piece of luggage in my hand. 'And the car, it is waiting outside? Good, let us go,' he continued, walking determinedly past me without waiting for my reply.

The luggage safely deposited in the car, we soon set off. To my chagrin, the man seated beside me appeared positively indifferent as to my presence. Several inquiries about his investigations, the accommodation and the food in Scotland (the latter topic which is always of monumental importance to him) only succeeded in getting short, non-committal remarks from Poirot who looked more interested in dozing off, his chin resting upon the thick muffler around his neck and looking as bundled up as ever in the chilly October air. It was on occasions like these that I felt nothing more than a mere chauffeur but only this time, I was thankful for the activity since at least the feeling of my hands on the steering wheel and my foot on the pedal gave me some respite from the growing embarrassment and disappointment brewing up inside me.

_I have completely misjudged him this time_, I thought bitterly to myself. _This wager business is clearly not pleasing to him. God, what a fool he must think of me!_ I cringed inwardly, unwilling to linger longer on this uncomfortable topic. It felt a little awful to think that I was so unconsciously dependent on receiving his approval but I supposed that was because I had grown so used to the small laugh which was emitted every time I had amused him (though I admit this often happened accidentally). Other doubts soon permeated through my mind. _Perhaps he's forgotten the wager? Or perhaps he's unhappy that I've actually out bested his own moustache by accident?_ The second idea seemed quite ludicrous, I mused as the car ground to a halt outside Whitehaven Mansions. But it was nevertheless a possibility; Poirot despite his talents and intelligence had the knack for being nearly outrageously conceited at times.

The sudden stopping of the car stirred him out of his apparent nap and with a muttered _'très bien'_, he silently exited the car and I could see that the situation had not improved. Poirot's luggage was soon deposited in the flat and the door was shut quietly behind us. It was only then that he spoke though it was not addressed to me.

'Ah, Miss Lemon! But why are you still here? It is a Saturday, is it not?' he exclaimed.

'Oh, Mr Poirot, I hadn't expected to stay this long but there was a slight anomaly with the filing system and I simply had to stay to correct it.'

'Ever the hard-working Miss Lemon,' said Poirot and I could simply hear the praise in his voice from the other room. 'But it is nearly four-thirty –'

'It's quite all right, Mr Poirot. I've actually just finished.'

'Ah, _bon_. You should make the most of what remains of today, Miss Lemon…it is _le week-end_, after all.'

Their conversation turned to his investigations in Scotland and Poirot expressed himself animatedly and at far greater length than he had done so with me in the Lagonda. It puzzled me indeed to think that Poirot could talk so freely with Miss Lemon and yet seem oblivious to my own presence. I watched him escort Miss Lemon to the door which he opened for her as she got ready to leave for the day.

'Well, Mr Poirot, it's wonderful to see you back in London, I must say,' she said. 'Captain Hastings was quite keen to see you back; he even has a new moustache!'

I saw him smile pleasantly at this but he said nothing more than a warm goodbye as she left. As soon as the door was shut, I rose from the couch and started to make my way to my room.

'Hastings?'

I turned coldly towards him. He was finally looking at me, his eyes inquisitive. 'Where are you going?'

'If you must know; the bathroom, Poirot,' I replied, my voice unusually frigid, the coldness and terseness of it even surprising myself. Any ordinary man would flinch at such a reception but not Hercule Poirot.

'And may I ask for what reason, _mon ami_?' he continued delicately.

'Why, to get rid of this ridiculous moustache,' I said a little angrily, my feelings finally rising to the fore. His gaze again directed itself to my upper lip with an intense curiosity but when he said nothing, I continued: 'It's obvious that you don't find it to your 'satisfaction', Poirot. I highly doubt whether you even like me having one despite your constant suggestions to me.'

'Hastings, when did I ever say that it was not to my satisfaction?' he said soothingly, shaking his head. '_Mon pauvre_ Hastings, always leaping to the conclusion…and as always, the _wrong_ one.' Probably noticing the hurt expression on my face, he added gently: 'On the contrary, _mon ami_, I think it a magnificent moustache.' He paused. 'Quite magnificent – just like its owner.'

I stared at him. It was really at times like these that I hardly knew whether Poirot was being serious or simply amusing himself at my own expense. In spite of my misgivings, I took the bait.

'Then if that's the case, Poirot, why didn't you say that outright at the station? Or even in the car? It would have saved me a world of –'

I never finished my sentence. For it was at that moment that Poirot moved determinedly from his spot near Miss Lemon's office, put his hands resolutely about my face and crushed me against him, kissing me in the most passionate way imaginable.

Releasing me a few moments later, he smiled up at me, my visage probably the very picture of complete astonishment.

'You comprehend, Hastings?' he said, his voice low and husky. 'That is the reason why I did not say it outright. You probably did not know at the time, _mon cher_, how close I was to doing this on the platform regardless of all the people around us.'

My mind was still in hazy disarray. In love as well as work, Poirot had the tendency to catch one completely off-guard with his actions. _Very much like a cat pouncing on a mouse_, I thought distantly, and it was almost always that I found myself to be the latter. His strange behaviour which had started at the station now made complete sense. It was, as he liked to continually remind me during our cases, perfectly simple. Also the fact that his face was maddeningly only inches from mine was making it exceedingly difficult for me to remain angry with him. My annoyance flickered feebly away and I managed weakly: 'Oh. I see.' There was a delicious silence during which all I was aware of was his eyes gazing affectionately into mine. 'I suppose we couldn't have that happening all the time, could we?'

'_Non, mon cher_. We certainly could not,' his voice too hardly above a whisper which only I could hear.

At that, he stepped a little away from me, breaking the spell he had fixed upon me and giving me some respite from his magnificent glowing brown orbs. Visibly collecting himself, I saw him reach into his inside breast pocket.

'What are you doing?' I asked.

He said nothing. Instead he merely grasped my hand with his own, raised it and neatly deposited a ten pound note into my open palm.

'Even the great Hercule Poirot knows when he is beaten, _mon ami_, and he pays his dues most willingly.'

His attention then directed itself towards the luggage waiting behind him and knowing that it was best not to interfere in his meticulous practice of unpacking, I took this as a sign to retire to my room until much later.

'Hastings?'

'Yes, Poirot?' I said, turning at the double doors leading into the hallway.

'May I ask of you one great favour?'

'Why, of course. Anything.'

'Try not to make a habit of growing the moustache too often, _mon cher_, or one day it will get the best of me despite myself!' He was carefully taking out the contents of his valise, looking every bit the composed detective. Only the subtle trace of a plea in his voice betrayed his real feelings.

I couldn't help but grin broadly at him.

'Don't worry, old fellow,' I said as innocently as I could. 'You're perfectly safe from me.'


End file.
